There is always an element of sweet delight discovering another zone of peace and tranquility. Such-ness.

Once upon a time before someone, perhaps being blind, invented a written language they carved symbols on clay with a sharp stick, a reed.

The 20-year old Mont Blanc 149 piston fountain pen has been repaired for a cool $160. They replaced the nib threaded insert, internal plastic coupling device that locks the barrel into place when not in use and changed the piston machinery. It's a sweet feeling, this "art of writing" instrument. Been around the proverbial block and then some.

Compared to the new thicker Chopin model spilling red ink this is quick, light and sliding on the paper. In this case Moleskine. Sweet touch.

Happy writing. Take good care of your tools.

Say something others think but are afraid to say. Get it down now and try to make sense of it later.

Here's an excerpt from A Century Is Nothing, regarding Hanford. Enjoy.

My team dived into, under and through massive Columbia waterfalls near tributaries where the confluence of Northwest rivers gnashed their teeth, snaked, roaring past abandoned Hanford nuclear plants where 55 million gallons of radioactive waste in decaying drums left over from W.W.II slowly seeped 130 feet down into the ground toward water tables.

The waste approached 250 feet as multinational laboratories, corporations and Department of Energy think tanks vying for projects and energy contract extensions discussed glassification options and emergency evacuation procedures according to regulations and Robert’s Rules Of Order inside the chaos of their well ordered scientific communities.

Tribal survivors ate roots and plants garnished with entropy.

Fascinating.

He turned another fragile yellow page marked Top SecretEvidence.

“It’s called Technicium, TC-99,” said an Indian scientist on a shuttle between reactors. “This is the new death and we know it’s there and there is nothing we can do to prevent it spreading.”

“The waste approached 250 feet as multinational laboratories, corporations and D.O.E. think tanks vying for projects and energy contract extensions discussed glassification options and emergency evacuation procedures according to regulations. Scientists read Robert’s Rules Of Order inside the organized chaos of their well order communities.

“The postal worker and the nomad talked over a counter while a frantic mother yelled at her daughter, “DON’T Touch The Stamps” because at her precocious age curiosity about colors blended itself toward planetary exploration developing her active imagination.

“Holding a nebula in his hand he told the woman how, up in the invisible sky, are all these really cool galaxies which means we are a third the life of a 3.5 billion year old universe and she said, ‘That’s interesting. I never looked at the stamps before,’ handing him change.”

He returned Omar’s papers to the folder and traveled beyond the forest on comet star tails.

Peace.

P.S. Zeynep in Turkey says the "Famous Dancing Meatballs" are alive and well, although some are in treatment for an anxiety disorder.

The NYT just published a piece on the Hanford "B" reactor. It is linked below the radioactive image.

This was where scientists and Richland residents worked "at the labs." Only after the U.S. dropped the bomb on Japan did they discover the truth about their work.

I lived there from 1989-1991. It was a strange "Twilight Zone" city. It's reassuring to know after eighteen years the Department of Energy is finally making plans to deal with the toxic waste.

An engineer friend took me on a tour of a reactor one quiet Sunday when it was down for maintenance. They were replacing the cooling rods. I was able to make images and they are posted here in the Image section.

I also collected a great deal of information about the 55 million barrels of spent uranium fuel; the long term "glassification" project with the Department of Energy and related environmental facts. Images were also published by Hanford Watch, an environmental group in Portland.

My book, A Century Is Nothing, contains extensive reference to the Hanford environmental catastrophe.

The act of writing forces me to slow down, concentrate, focus and center myself, a stranger to myself.

The old Zen fool was a writer, an artist. He loved making a mess, cleaning it up and making another mess. A big bright beautiful mess.

He was also a Lone Wolf. Free. Content. And so it was decided with pleasure. The play's the thing. This amazing risk taking adventure, all extravagant, emergency dancing word art artifact of joy, traveling along pages of mystery and delight is winding down.

A poem begins in wisdom and ends in delight.

Visions of mystical potentials. Allowing the blossoming beauty to open, unfold without purpose or product. Radiant.

Water, leaf, stone.

Wear a star on your forehead.

It was a gift from the night, from the ink sky when small powerful stars sang their songs, created smoke signals and one particularly curious star came down for a visit, how it was wondering, "What is Earth like?"

"How are the people there? Are they kind, friendly, rude, perhaps or do they share their time, their space, their toys - do they create amazing beautiful art full of magic using multi-colored pigments on cream colored paper where, should they dream with their eyes open, spill star colors, letting them bleed, letting them run away with their friends, feeling this joy inside the silence?"